Flowers of Ishvala
by WargishBoromirFan
Summary: Before the Civil War, Ishval was a paradise in the eyes of its children. Now, with a little help from some familiar faces and a mystery from Drachma, two Ishvalan orphans must try to become the change that will bring a new form of paradise to Amestris.
1. Desert Rose

A/N: I own nothing; Bones and Arakawa own all. At this point, the crossover is very subtle, but if you can name the kids even when the boy's eye color is different, I'll throw this in the FMA/WR section and maybe, - I don't know, even update someday. After episode 15 of the 'Hood, I just couldn't restrain the morphic twin crackbunnies any longer. I just already have one insanely long WIP that I'm still focusing on, so this will end up as a collection of vignettes rather than an ongoing intricate plot with lots of foreshadowing and overarching themes, if it even gets an update. Of course, more reviews mean more plotbunnies...

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The baby was quiet in Daniel Rockbell's arms, opening her eyes and cooing softly as he tickled her under the chin. She turned towards the sound of his fingers as he snapped them faintly by her ears before reaching blindly for them. Despite the blood that had soaked into her hair, turning it almost pink, and the unfocusing black pupils centered in red-tinged sclera and scarlet irises, she was otherwise a most happy, healthy baby. The same could not be said for her brother.

"Don't worry about me," the boy insisted, flailing away from Sarah as she attempted to remove his shirt, which was dripping with the same blood that had dyed his sister's hair. "Just tell me if she's going to be okay."

Dan was once again thankful for the Elric boys next door; if they hadn't been so used to Ed and Al's squirming, the boy probably would have escaped his wife's grasp entirely. "I'm sure she'll live. Now, let's take a look at you so that you can verify it for yourself."

"She's just so pale," the boy mumbled through his loose, bloodstained shirt as Sarah Rockbell finally wrangled it over his head. Daniel tightened his grip on the infant slightly at the sight of the boy's chest. If they had any painkillers left, now would be the time to use them, but as it was they were dependent upon the boy's worry for his little sister to override his own hurts as Sarah stitched him up… provided they even had enough suture for that bloody cross upon his chest. "And she - she won't look at me since I dropped her. She'll turn her head towards me, but she doesn't really _look_." The boy dropped his eyes to his lap, his voice wavering reluctantly as he placed his hand atop Sarah's as the female doctor attempted to clean his wound.

"What happened?" Though it meant risking the loss of the boy's attention, Daniel reluctantly handed the baby over to one of his aides, a former patient and local healer herself. He had others to tend to, including the right-arm reattachment surgery they'd dragged in last night. That young man still hadn't awoken, and with any luck, he wouldn't fully awake for a few more days yet. Daniel had seen enough of his mother's automail patients to know how painful the recovery process for a replaced limb was, and that was without the wounds on his back and forehead to rival this boy's chest. That didn't mean that the male doctor wouldn't listen with at least half an ear as his wife questioned their latest young patient. A pity so many of their stories went the same way…

"They… they handed her to me, and told me to run. The blast came out of nowhere, and I just went _limp_. I tried to pick her up once I came to and head for the desert, but well… _ouch_!" The boy cut off as Sarah finally got him prone and started trying to wash out the wound. Daniel was surprised that the boy had lasted as long as he did.

"You may have saved her life, you know. If the soldiers had seen either of you moving…" Dan was reluctant to finish the thought, and Sarah shot him a frown for saying as much as he had. They all knew what the military was doing here. The Rockbells didn't approve, but they couldn't turn their backs on their countrymen when they needed help, no matter what skin or eye color they happened to possess. A tragedy that the higher echelons of the government no longer saw it that way.

"I know what would have happened." The boy's voice was too solemn for the doctor's liking, too full of a hatred that became automatic out of necessity. The Rockbells couldn't entirely remove that poison from even a single child's voice, but perhaps they could draw some of it out, at least. "But why are you here? Why don't you go back to the soldiers that you should be taking care of? They're your people."

"These are our people, too. Ishval is part of Amestris. I'm sorry that the military has lost sight of that, but if you can get out of here, I think you'll find that not everyone will judge you only on your looks." Sarah tried to offer a morsel of hope to make the truth slightly more palatable.

"But this is our _home!"_ The boy had every reason to be angry, every reason to be frightened, every reason to cry out against the injustice, even as he tried to contain the tears in his scarlet eyes.

"Not any longer." As much grief as Sarah would probably give him for putting it bluntly, Daniel knew that these children would not survive a war zone with their innocence intact. "The leaders of Ishval have been trying to send a delegation to Central to end this war, but as of now, this is a wasteland. The world changes, and the most a man can do is try to change with it for the better. You'll have to find a new home for yourself and your sister." The boy nodded, his eyes watery but hardening.

Sarah put a hand to the finished bandage before she moved to the next patient. "Just know that you don't have to do it entirely by yourself," she whispered. The reattachment patient let out a slight groan, calling her attention back to her duty as the orderly handed the baby back to her brother.

They could not fix this war. Not as two doctors with no supplies, no government approval, and little support. But perhaps, for just a moment, with help from the Ishvalans who had accepted them into their country, they could put a relieved smile on the face of one wounded young boy as he embraced his baby sister, lowering his lips to her unseeing red eyes.


	2. Midnight Bloom

A/N: I own nothing. Here, we have crossover material, though the plot hasn't seen its biggest twists yet... Reviews are crack, people, and crack helps a writer with story ADD stay focused.

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"Well?" The girl asked, spinning around for her brother. "What do you think?"

"You're really going with that skirt?" He knew she couldn't see the bemused half-smile on his face, but it wouldn't surprise him if she caught it in his voice. She'd had years of practice.

"What's wrong with it?" The skirt in question was white, with a band of pink ribbon along the bottom, and fell to soft pleats, stopping at mid-thigh.

It was another idea she'd gotten since she had begun to go out on her own while he was working his more legitimate job. He'd insisted that she didn't need to run errands; as long as she kept the little apartment clean, she was doing enough. His sister felt otherwise, badgering him until he led her in the direction of the grocer's and baker's, at least; she insisted that if he earned them their food, he shouldn't have to go out to get it, too.

For better or for worse, a well-mannered but stubbornly determined blind girl inspired sympathy and protectiveness in most of the local housewives and more than a few of their daughters as well. Sympathy could turn into friendship, and friendship with these girls led to some fashion choices that the young man was sure would have their mother rolling in her unmarked grave. He didn't like to think about what it might lead to around Amestrian men. "It's short."

"It's cute," she corrected. "And the girls at the shop tell this one that she has very nice legs." She would retreat back to the formal, most modest form of address, just to give him the illusion of control. He wasn't fooled as to who held the real power in the family. She had since they'd arrived off the back of the train in East Amestris proper.

"I thought you were trying to convince me to let you take this job." She was too young to be working, even if he'd been doing so since he was ten. "That's hardly reassuring to your big brother."

"This one will only be behind the perfume counter..." The crimson-eyed girl faltered, smoothing her headscarf. "Besides, it isn't as if anything is visible. This one is wearing tights beneath."

"Just as long as you're wearing this and these as well," he said, pulling the traditional Ishvalan raiment a little further over her hair and pushing the sunglasses snug against her nose. All these years later, there was still a flush of pink to the whites of her hair and sclera, though she had never appeared to suffer any mental trauma over the explosion. She had been too young to remember it, or their parents, or her vision. He hoped. No sense in remembering what she couldn't have. Automail limbs were fairly common in this part of the country, but no one had yet managed a way to reattach optic nerves, let alone what their alchemists had destroyed. "And remind any man who lingers in the shop that you've got a protective elder brother who'll be expecting you home sharply at quitting time."

"It's not as if this one is going into the desert, Tsume," she laughed at his chiding. "And this one will likely be home before you."

"That's what worries me." He embraced her gently before donning his own glasses and leading her to the door. "Just because they stopped hunting our people actively doesn't mean that the military will smile upon us if they find us in this town."

She gripped his hand at her shoulder, puling him to a stop. "If we are to avoid getting caught… Brother, this one must humbly suggest that you stop meeting the others at night."

His second job was not recognized by any outside of the workers. It would not earn the approval of the town council if they were to hear of the group's activities. Even the neighbors who had been so kind to his sister and tried to offer a welcoming atmosphere to him as well would likely be frightened to know that followers of Ishval were still gathering for services… let alone duties to their fellow countrymen beyond simple prayers and religious obligations.

"They are our people, Cheza." The factory job paid the bills. It was the second job that was his true calling. The payments from it were made to his soul.

His little sister trembled beneath his arm. "They are thieves and terrorists. They may pray to the same God as you and this one, but this one must believe that if Ishvala has spared her life, it was not to revisit His wrath down upon the rest of Amestris. We must teach them to turn away from such emotions, not to give into wrath ourselves." He had once idly told her that he had wanted to be a priest, before the war began. The role of Ishvala's monks had changed, and so must that childish dream, whether his sister appreciated the change or not. She was too young to know what the men he had once so respected in boyhood had been like, anyway. It should not matter to her if he failed to live up to the teachings of the old priests, even if he had been the one to tell her of them and instill in her their great ideals.

He released her, pushing her forward with a snort that promised nothing. She had walked to the shop often enough that she could navigate her way on her own with no more than the echo of her (too thin) boots, walking cane, and alert mind. "You'll be late to your job, Rug Roa," he teased her, hoping even as the name slipped his mouth that it was only a crude jest and not prophetic irony.

"There are other ways to win a battle than violence," Cheza insisted as her brother turned away for his own job. "Remember that Amestrians have families, too, even soldiers."

"I haven't killed anyone," he grumbled, peeking back to make sure she was actually walking toward her new employment.

"Yet" went without saying.

*


	3. Eidelweiss

A/N: I offer no guarantees on a regular update schedule for this fic, as my plotty action muses tend to be extremely fickle and I'm lucky to get them to cooperate on my current Wolf's Rain novella, let alone the three Tolkienverse stories that got left in limbo when my laptop crashed. There is at least another chapter in the works here, but further updates on this puppy will be extremely irregular. (Though yes, it does all tie together.)

Olivieer? What Olivieer? I don't own FMA; even the doctor of Briggs's name has been taken from Causmicfire's "Doom and the Wedding." It's a good fic and at least part of the inspiration for this bit. Don't make me go Maes Hughes on you, go check it out when you're done!

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Although she would never admit it, even to Miles, she had been frightened when Buccaneer had been found wounded, frostbitten, and more than a little delirious in the snow. It was bad enough that there was an unknown thief running loose in the forbidding wilderness just beyond Briggs. It was bad enough that Buccaneer had gone looking for it and then didn't return for four days. It was more awful than Olivia Armstrong was willing to admit to take one of her captain's big mitts in her hand and feel nothing but cold, - no movement, no reaction whether he was awake or asleep, no blood-flow, no _warmth…_ But the most frightening part, in the general's mind, was that Briggs had failed to capture the thief.

This was weakness, and the rule of Briggs allowed only the strong to survive. In this icy no-man's land (it was _her_ land, damn it, and the Fuhrer could kindly go stab himself along with the Drachmians) the strong took what they wanted and went where they wanted. When Armstrong's company showed weakness, the strong from Central came and tried to take over.

They were calling it an investigation. They called it medical aid. The company included an automail mechanic (Buccaneer's screams bothered her more than they should – he would survive; he would be stronger; he would be on his feet and at her side once more… _How the hell did Miles stand it?_) and at least one man from Intelligence, but Armstrong knew what their purpose was. She had known since she saw her younger brother's face light up at the sight of her. (The mustache reminded her of their father's; was Alex trying to crawl back into her good graces? It was a poor effort. Very poor.)

"Sister!" Alex had tried to embrace her, barreling his way through those stupid enough to stand in his path.

Olivia lifted a hand, palm flat, and held him off, stepping forward onto his boot quite by accident, or so her underlings were willing to swear. "It is General, while we are in uniform," she hissed coldly. She made a point of never changing out of uniform while in Briggs territory if she could help it. She turned to the men beyond the Strong Arm Alchemist. "Who is in charge, here?"

A dark-haired man in glasses saluted her jauntily. Something about him seemed familiar, and it did not set her mind at ease. "I believe you are, sir, but I'm in charge of the investigation team. General Raven granted us autonomous authority for our stay here, but I hope we'll be able to work in harmony for the most part."

"And you would be?" Moving around her brother to get a better look at him, General Armstrong motioned Miles closer. He knew without her signaling to be on his guard about these men.

"Lieutenant-Colonel Maes Hughes, sir."

"You must allow him to show you his pictures of his family sometime, Olivia. He has quite the collection." Alex bent slightly to murmur in her ear. His elder sister did not appreciate the commentary. He was in Buccaneer's spot. She shifted her weight to step on his toes again, and Alex cowered back into submission, biting his lip to keep from yelping. Her younger siblings were strong, but Olivia Armstrong was strongest of them all, even if all but baby Catherine had outgrown her now…

"You will be briefed on what we know about the thief. At this point, it is precious little, although Captain Buccaneer may have more information for us once he recovers. You are the automail mechanic?" The general inclined her head towards the lone man not dressed in military blue.

"Yes, ma'am! If someone can direct me towards the patient, I'll see what we can do. I hear you have a doctor on your staff as well?" The man nodded animatedly, trying to pull his thick coat higher about his neck and hide his shivers. He would get used to it. They all did, or they left, usually via dying.

"Take him to Dr. Wendle, Miles," General Armstrong said. The automail mechanic had a determined gleam in his eye. He appeared to think that he would be able to take charge of Buccaneer's recovery. Knowing Brigg's own doctor, a part of Olivia would love to see him try. The rest of her hoped he could, if only it meant that Buccaneer _would_ recover.

Well, he would. The captain Olivia knew was too big, bold, and stubborn not to make a full return to health. She just wished it could be faster. It was probably because Alex was tagging along at her side as she escorted Hughes and his team to their quarters and promised to leave them copies of the reports on Briggs's thief. Weakness might be communicable.


	4. Snow in Summer

A/N: Do I look like I've captured the secrets to immortality and sheer awesomeness? Didn't think so. Yes, the characters from Wolf's Rain are only alluded to here, but you can probably guess the thief from the last chapter title.

* * *

Hughes did turn out to have quite a lot of photographs. The woman was rather plain, in Olivia's opinion, and the general had no idea what the lieutenant-colonel saw in the small, wobbly pink thing, but Miles at least was willing to show more empathy than his commanding officer could willingly fabricate. If only the man from Central could limit his displays to his fellow fathers, he would be very easy to get along with. (Or at least, easy for everyone but Miles to get along with… At least it would improve Olivia Armstrong's mood, and a content she-bear of Briggs tended to make things easier for all those who lived beneath her. Not that Armstrong could truly call herself content with these soft southerners poking into every corner of her fort and her brother dogging her heels and making her imagine for a few scant moments that her left-hand man was there as well as her right…)

However, the only thing that rivaled the numbers of pictures and stories about Gracia and Elysia was the number of Hughes's victims. Within a week, everyone in Briggs had heard the names of Hughes's wife and daughter. By the end of the second, they probably knew them better than Major Miles's family, including Miles himself. Hughes insisted that talking about his family kept him warm, even in the freezing north. Armstrong suspected that the sheer mass of photos acted as an insulating layer.

Her brother, at least, seemed to never tire of his superior's stories. Olivia half suspected it was mostly because Alex was enjoying watching her suffer. Technically, she could simply put a sword through Maes Hughes and his stacks of pictures, but it was so difficult to hide the body in the permafrost without having to drag it far enough out into the mountains to be a hassle…

And the thief was still on the loose. The assailant. It would just be the general's luck if it turned out to be a Drachmian assassin and spy, at this rate, as well. Hughes's investigation had found clues, at least. From the reports her own force provided them with and a few stumbling, shivering forays of their own, the team from Central assured her that the thief was working alone, for now. It was cold comfort, but even that could be hard enough to come by in Briggs.

One thief could be dealt with. One could be harder to track down than many, but one alone could quickly lose heat, shelter, and supplies. Letting alone the men under her command, Olivia would love to see the assailant deal with the true ice bears of the north. Even Buccaneer had trouble with them occasionally; military practice was common enough that few of the nearby animals were frightened by the sounds of gunfire.

"Sir, there's something you ought to see." The man saluted as he knocked, but the Central forces still made a mockery of formal military discipline with the way they presumptuously interrupted her at her paperwork. Placing the projected costs of carbon fiber aside, the general motioned the man to continue. Buccaneer still hadn't decided on a model yet, and it wasn't as if the southerner would have likely stopped for anything short of her drawn sword. "Outside," he thumbed, as if he expected the general to rise when he entered. "We think we've found what's left of your thief."

At least an end to the investigation would mean an end to Central's presence here. "Show me," she directed, shrugging into her fur-lined greatcoat.

All they had to show of their thief was blood in the snow. There were footprints - awfully clumsy and obvious for one who had done its best to stick to the hard-frozen, windswept ice and falling snow - a half-gnawed reindeer corpse - the source of most of the splattered blood, at least that which was not human - and wolf tracks lain atop it, sometimes dipped in blood, sometimes weighed down by a cooling burden of fresh-killed meat. The deer was missing a back leg, torn from the body and either completely consumed or taken along with the human.

To a tracker, the story was obvious: weak and numb in mind and body, the thief had attempted to steal from something less formidable than General Armstrong's bears. He'd learned the hard way that all of the northern wildlife practiced survival of the fittest. The weak were used to further the lives of the strong, and this pack had proven its strength with its continued survival.

To a more cynical, imaginative tracker, there was on major flaw with this tale: there was more than one type of strength. The prints - both human and wolf - disappeared very quickly outside the radius of the gory scene, faster than a desperate thief or an unintelligent pack of wolves could account for. Although there had been a series of leaps, slides and backtracks in an attempt to disguise the number of wolves, all the paw prints seemed extraordinarily similar in shape and size. When one lacked strength of numbers or arms, there were other forms of strength, indeed.

One of which was luck. "We can handle man-eating wildlife well enough on our own," Olivia had informed Hughes, who had been waiting with her brother for her return. "I suspect that a small pack of wolves poses no threat to Central that requires you to gather data." A single wolf posed even less. A single chimera… it appeared aware that it was being tracked, and if it took this opportunity to sneak away from the gaze of Central and lick its wounds, then so would Briggs. Her men could take down a chimera as well as they could take down wolves or humans. The foremost task was getting rid of their unwanted allies.

"Probably not," Hughes agreed, slipping a photograph out of his sleeve as if there were pressing reasons for the Central investigative services to return south in his mind, as well. "But even if this guy's dead, it's important to know who was trying to break into Briggs."

"I will personally send you any information about the body my troops may uncover. I have Major Armstrong's address," the general promised dryly, ignoring the joyous sparkle in her younger brother's eyes.

"It would be nice if you used it on occasion and sent home letters, sis- general," Alex corrected himself before she had to correct him with anything more than a narrowed eye.

"So leave here and wait by your mailbox," Olivia snapped. "There is no point in sending letters when no one will receive them."

"It is good to get to see you in person, though, Olivia." The younger Armstrong offered her a gauntleted beefy hand, which was better than the unwanted bone-crushing hugs he typically desired.

"Same," she responded gruffly, ignoring Hughes's rather evil smile. "You're not a completely stupid waste of resources, at least." Olivia decided to take pity on Alex, though she squeezed hard enough to make her brother yelp to avoid comparing the warm grip with a certain colder one. They'd saved the left hand, at least.

"At least we have some sort of conclusion to our little mystery. It'll be good to get home to Central to see my Elysia and Gracia…" Hughes dismissed his men, who took the opportunity to run while they still could. They recognized that tone that heralded yet another gushing paean to the two women their colonel missed the most. Olivia ground her teeth, wishing she could join them, but the glitter was gone from Maes Hughes's eyes nearly as fast as it had come. "If you do find the body, please try to save it for shipping. I'd be interested to find out how the human prints disappeared just where the wolf prints began."

The general raised an eyebrow. This one was obnoxious, but despite the fog on his glasses from filtering his breath through an extra thick coat and a rather non-standard-issue scarf, he wasn't blind. "Even chimeras leave something in between, after all," he added before saluting, not waiting for her response before heading back towards the base.

Olivia glanced at her brother, the last of Hughes's men to remain at the site. Would Drachma really be working on some sort of advanced shape-shifting chimera, one using human parts? There was adapting to a situation and then there was perverting the natural laws…

Maybe they should spring for a couple different attachments for Buccaneer's new automail. Flexibility was a strength, and right now, Briggs needed all the strength she could get. The wolves were circling outside the bear's den, and winter was coming hard.


	5. Black Eyed Susan

A/N: I don't own these guys; I wouldn't want to. Yeah, I'm bringing in yet another little thread before really setting up the main plotline, much less resolving it, but I think you'll see why this one needs to be added.

* * *

Tucker had met him once, out of professional courtesy. He would have liked to say that there was some professional curiosity to their meeting, as well, since both men had taken interest in the biological applications of alchemy, but the Drachmian expatriate had no standing with the Amestrian government and had affected an air of bored disdain for the Sewing Life Alchemist's lesser chimeras. Part of Tucker wondered if the man had put in any study in the field whatsoever, that he could not appreciate the majority of Tucker's life's work. But when Tucker had presented his… talking chimera… That, the tall, dark-haired fop had taken an interest in. That, he had asked probing questions about, circling it, kneeling to the creature's eye-level and staring so intensely at it that for a moment Tucker wondered if the one-eyed man knew exactly what it had cost him… Darcia was said to have lost his wife before coming south to Amestris…

But mostly Tucker did not think about the man, if he could help it. Although quick-witted and somewhat charming, after his own distant, patronizing way, Tucker had found the Drachmian unforgivably ostentatious in his sable-lined dark robes and hat that was more feather than fabric. And instead of a simple eye-patch as the Fuhrer himself might wear, Darcia seemed to favor a mask - a shield between his pale face and the target of his bitterly cutting tongue, painted with a single golden eye where he himself had nothing that he would reveal. Overall, the man was far too much like Mustang or Kimbley - Tucker had no doubt that the two destructive alchemists would be this Drachmian's more worthy rivals, strutting and preening and barely ever turing in their glittering reports of their own pompous genius on time, were Mustang not so fond of playing at promotions and Kimbley not locked away as safely as a maniac like that could be.

And when Tucker did bother to think of the man, he suffered from the nagging suspicion that Darcia was probably as deadly as both. Such was the lot of a nationally-recognized alchemist, after all. Drachma had recognized Darcia, and the northern country had not sent him running because he had failed their state exam. He had never taken Amestris's, apparently caring more for ingratiating himself with his wealthy backers than studying and presenting new findings every year. Although part of Tucker, a part that was frazzled and jealous and sick at heart, wanted to attribute this to simple sloth, he could not deny that there were some findings that were worth keeping secret. When Shou Tucker could not help but to think about the man, he wondered what Darcia's were.

*


	6. Foxglove

A/N - We can has plot now! We still can't has Wolf's Rain or Fullmetal Alchemist. Bones and Arakawa maded them. Thanks again to my repeat reviewer, FrozenForeverinHisHeart, as well as all of you lurkers who have this on your favorites and alerts.

Speaking of alerts and favorites, if you follow my other fics: "Paradise Blues" will be getting an update soon, but to celebrate its new official category page on FFnet, I've also got a six-page Pumpkin Scissors triple-shot in the works. If you can't get enough of FMA, especially in regards to King Bradley's ultimate Crowning Moment of Awesome, sheer Armstrong kickass charisma, (with more scar than sparkle,) shadowy country-altering plots a-brewing in the background, genetically altered soldiers trying to find a new life for themselves in the wake of war, and Royai-like shipping, you'll probably love Pumpkin Scissors, too. Okay, enough shameless advertising. On to the fic!

* * *

"Where did you get this?" The man shoved the red cloth under his nose as if it were some untrained animal's mistake, the punk's other hand pressing his sternum practically through the brick wall.

And Hige's day had started off so well.

He'd never been able to afford anything in the shop, but with all the lovely ladies clustering about its feminine fripperies, who could blame a guy for browsing just a little every now and then? And they'd gotten a new employee, too, since he'd last visited, a willowy little thing with sun-kissed skin and a short skirt that the older girls seemed to dote upon. She was modest, though, with tights to subtly show off her gams and she hid her hair and eyes until he'd charmed her out of the kerchief, at least. Strawberry blonde, or close enough. Not his usual type, but he couldn't deny that she was kinda cute, and for a blind chick, she was really graceful. Must have developed her other senses really well…

He hadn't even realized that he'd accidentally walked off with her kerchief. Sticky fingers were just an instinctual habit by this point. It gave him an excuse to go back and visit her again tomorrow, returning it to her when he'd "found" where she'd "lost" it. He could just imagine the relieved grin lighting up her face…

"I just found it outside Nadine's Beauty Shop." Hige tried to place his hands in front of his chest, palms outwards. The story didn't sound quite so good when he considered using it as explanation to the white-haired man snarling before him.

"When?" Seriously, Hige could all but see the man's hackles rise. He looked too young to have white hair. Too young and way too muscular. There were rumors of a white-haired, dark skinned, red-eyed killer going around the city, but at least this dude didn't have any major scars or tattoos on him… visible, at least.

Well, if this guy could explode Hige's head just by horse-collaring him, it would have already happened. The younger man shrugged awkwardly around the punk's iron grip and started to reach for the kerchief, but his captor abruptly withdrew it and caught the wide wrist, forcing Hige's hand down and away. "Don't remember," he said, brown eyes instinctively trying to peek around the edges of those shades for a hint of crimson. Hell, Hige wouldn't be surprised if the dark-skinned man's eyes were glowing with anger. "Must have been early this afternoon."

"Do you realize what this is?" The man's voice dropped in volume, along with temperature. Hige didn't think that a little harmless misconduct deserved quite so much cold fury.

"I dunno, a handkerchief?" Smartassery was probably not the best tone to adopt when dealing with this angered demon, but it kept his voice from quavering too much.

"This is my little sister's mitpachat. She doesn't take it off outside our home, yet she's not there. Care to explain?" What was this dude's deal? So she was missing a headscarf. It wasn't like a lot of girls never let their hair down every now and then. It generally did them good, in Hige's opinion. She was out of the shop, so she didn't have to worry about those pale, pale red strands getting anywhere they weren't supposed to. Maybe this guy ought to try letting his own rattail loose every once in a while. Might have saved him from going gray so young.

"How should I know?" There were only so many ways to admit ignorance before Hige grew tired of repeating himself. That, and a little worried about what would happen if Big Bad Brother got bored, too.

"You are going to find out and lead me to her. She will be unharmed. Otherwise," the man had a knife in his hand faster than Hige could follow. "You will know every bit of pain she's gone through."

Deep breath. Not so deep that the knife actually cut into him, but Hige thought they both needed a minute to chill here. "Now, look, I know you're upset; she's a cute girl, and what guy wouldn't be upset at losing track of his little sister, but are you sure that she didn't just decide to go somewhere else on her own?"

"What are you implying?" That if Hige were in the girl's pink boots, he would've run away ages ago.

"Look, was there any sign of a struggle, 'cause I sure didn't see one outside the shop. Maybe she just forgot to leave you a note before she went out with someone." Hige tried to stay reasonable. Someone had to.

"She's only thirteen. She's blind. She wouldn't have 'went out,'" the man said in the dead certainty of a naive eldest sibling. "Just because there aren't signs of a struggle doesn't mean that there wasn't one. Someone could have surprised her. Someone might have tried to cover his tracks." Hige got the sense that whatever color the man's eyes were behind his shades, they were as sharp as his knife and they were boring directly into Hige.

Slowly, carefully, keeping his other hand open to show that he was unarmed, Hige pushed the blade away from his throat. "Anyone ever tell you that there are more polite ways to ask for help? I had nothing to do with your sister running off, but since I'm such a great guy, maybe I'll take you down to the local military liaison, and you can get them to help you find her."

"The military is not getting involved in any way that would help us. However, I don't think that you necessarily want to get their attention, either, do you?" Obviously implied threats weren't going to work on this guy. Hige tried not to let his body language show that the taller man was right, but well, he was. It wasn't like Hige made trouble like the various gangs in the area did, he just had sticky fingers. Natural habit when you'd grown up as yet another unwanted orphan just outside of Central City. Pity the good servants of the state chose not to see it that way.

"What do you expect me to do, sniff her out like a bloodhound?" It wasn't giving in, exactly, it was just tabling the military discussion until they'd exhausted all - _most,_ Hige amended, as the white-haired man drew back his knife - most of their other options.

The dark-skinned man straightened, pulling away from Hige with such deliberate stillness that the brunet knew he was making it clear that he could pin him again in a heartbeat if he deemed it necessary. "You found her headscarf. Now find her."

"I'll see what I can do," Hige muttered, dusting himself off and moving away from the wall. He swore he could feel the imprint of the bricks tattooed into his back. Still, when he walked, the knife-wielding, probably Ishvalan, possibly mass-murderer of a vengeful elder brother shadowed after him, so Hige quickly turned his steps back towards the now-closed beauty shop. He doubted his night would go nearly so well as his day had.


End file.
